Adventures Are Not Always Better Than Tacos

It’s been suggested I write about my 7-hour adventure traveling 12 miles from work to home in Atlanta’s Horror Snow. But what can I say that hasn’t already been said? For that matter, what can I say that I haven’t already? I’d offer my sanity was saved by the existence of Facebook, and my insistence on keeping a phone charger in the car, but those who know me might dispute I had any sanity left to begin with. Also, when I find myself saying “I was only in the car for seven hours,” I do so as a comparable to the experience of others, and it begins to feel more like I experienced a mild inconvenience on the way back from the store. People ran out of gas, were trapped in their cars for up to 20 hours. Kids on buses, the elderly in parking lots and on the shoulder, freezing, hungry, scared. Some slept in stores, or at strangers’ houses. Me? Well, I had a 24 pack of water in my backseat I happened to buy that morning, had fueled up the day before, eaten before leaving work. All things considered, I was fine. Frustrated, sure, but fine. I knew I would get home. There was no danger of reckless driving; I used second gear for all of five seconds on my 7 mile trek around I-285. Hard to get into a serious accident at 1 MPH.

You can never have too many plus sides.

You can never have too many plus sides.

By comparison, I had it easy. Worst thing, aside from general discomfort, I had to deal with was an increasingly full bladder. It was suggested I make use of the water bottles available, but first off it seemed a horrifying thought to dump out water when so many people could have used it, and secondly I kept having visions of Lloyd Christmas peeing into beer bottles.

The mechanics of that still confuse me.

What reason had I to complain? I not only had supplies and phone power, I had polar bears to lead me home.

They will lead you home. Or to Svalbard. Either way, follow.

They will lead you home. Or to Svalbard. Either way, follow.

I had entertainment, and a demanding cousin who wouldn’t give me a biscuit:

It's Snow RapSnow More

BISCUIT ME

Sure, I spent the last three hours inching the quarter of a mile to the sign marking my exit ramp, idling for 20 minutes at a time, crawling toward the light like that creepy no-lower-half zombie chick from the first episode of the Walking Dead, but I knew I was close enough to walk if I had to. I knew that once I hit the road, there would be no one in the mall parking lot, and my last mile would be incident free. I knew I had a warm home, food, much drink, a comfy bed, and loving Moss waiting for me with somewhat still warm Jambalaya just a mile and half away. I knew, unlike many of my friends still stuck miles from home, my It’s Snow Adventure Really time was nearly at an end.

If you don't know Jim, well, sucks for you.

If you don’t know Jim, well, sucks for you. Almost as much as misspelling grateful.

What I went through wasn’t horrible. Being born in a car on 285 is horrible (though being born and surviving is a definite plus). Being an elderly couple stranded in a car, unable to walk because the husband is wheelchair-bound is horrible. Being told your child is stranded on a bus on the side of the road, with no gas or heat or food, and being able to do nothing about it is horrible. I just had an experience. An inconvenience. It was nothing to whine about.

I saw enough from my city to be reminded why I call it home. As I posted yesterday:

Yesterday I saw enough kindness to alter the way I feel about Atlanta. People jumping out of cars to help others gas up, offering ice scrapers to those trying to get their cars moving, businesses opening their doors, strangers opening their homes. The city wasn’t prepared for this. But the people have responded. Well done, folks.

Atlanta: We've survived the Olympics, sorta survived the Zombie Apocalypse, and we'll survive this.

Atlanta: We survived the Olympics, sorta survived the Zombie Apocalypse, and we’ll survive this.

James Franco is an author writer with mad ninja skills

I’d like to begin this with a sincere attempt at not apologizing if this sticks a very unfortunate song in your head, but this is my blog, my therapy, and I need to paste it somewhere other than in my head.  So, there.  Um, yeah.

But since this may not be enough, I drop this into the abyss of my blog as well:

There.  All better.

James Franco wrote a book.  No, really.  I might be imaginative, but even I have my limits.  It’s a collection of stories, which I imagine amuse him greatly, and probably only encourage him to think even more highly of himself.  No disrespect to Sir James, he was a passable Goblin Jr.–although the self-destructive, delusional, running weed joke that was Pineapple Express stole a bit of my soul before I sent it back to Netflix with a note that said, “No!  Bad Netflix!”–but I can’t help imagining him writing this book, pausing at each sentence with that damned half-smirk of his to admire how awesomely awesome  it was.

I am so freakin' awesome...

Yeah. That one.

Apparently, according the guru of all things hip and importantly pivotal to a world unprepared to acknowledge his vast and deeply essential understanding of hipness, Russ Marshalek, there is a sentence that reads: “When would things begin mattering? he wondered. Now, now, now.”

Wow. I am sufficiently moved now.  And yet, strangely compelled, in that Apocalypse South, kind of way to read this.  I may print out the picture above and use it as a bookmark just to be reminded of how awesome Sir James thinks he is, so that I fully appreciate it for myself.  Or I might just burn the photo, along with a collection of the movies he’s been in, so that I have enough light to tear out each page as I read it, smother it in mayonnaise, and eat it.

It’s a toss-up.